


Bereft

by pan_ismyhomeboy



Category: Avatar: Legend of Korra
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Divergent Timelines, Gen, Grief/Mourning, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-21
Updated: 2014-06-20
Packaged: 2018-02-05 13:11:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1819621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pan_ismyhomeboy/pseuds/pan_ismyhomeboy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A year after the end of the Equalist movement and neither the Avatar nor Amon's lieutenant have had much success in moving on. One day a mask finally washes up on shore and they both get the opportunity to lay the past to rest.</p>
<p>(Diverges wildly from canon after the season one finale; season two didn't/hasn't happened in this timeline.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bereft

 

It has been a year and they are both still haunted, unable to shake the spectres of the past clinging to them like a second skin. Day or night, awake or asleep, they cannot escape him: the blue eyes that burn from behind his mask, the haughty timbre of his voice, the feeling of his fingertips sliding across their bare skin. He is like a hungry ghost, restless and ill at ease, conspiring to keep the both of them forever anchored to the past, only… there _is_ no ghost, there is no body and never will be, and they cannot exorcise spirits that are not there. And _he_ is not there. He is gone and they are left behind to tend the gaping wound wrought by his life and his absence.  

It is impossible to tell which one of them hates him more, for all that Amon was and all he was not, for destroying every sense of normalcy they once had, for calling into question all that had once been a stable, fixed point in their lives. For _leaving_ , the coward, the bastard, the fiend, and leaving _them_ behind to stew in their own angry helplessness and fear (and, for one of them at least, something dangerously close to heartbreak).

They will never have answers, though she is (will be) the wisest and most powerful human alive and he is (once was) the closest thing to a confidante and friend Amon ever had. Or at least, that is what both of them had believed. And so the two of them move on with their lives, going through the motions and waiting for a resolution that will never come.

One day on the cusp of autumn, a mask washes up on the beach and is found half-buried in sand. Though the authorities attempt to keep it quiet, rumors fly across the city and reach both the Avatar and the lieutenant in their own time. The whispers only confirm what they have known in their hearts all along: _he is dead, he is dead, he is dead_.

 

. . .

  

Perhaps, he thinks to himself as he picks his way into a back basement door at police headquarters, he should be more cautious. Perhaps this is a terrible idea and only puts into jeopardy his months of hiding, evading those who would bring him to justice for his crimes. Perhaps he should not find so much satisfaction in slipping beneath the nose of Lin Beifong herself to retrieve what’s rightfully _his_.

Perhaps. But he has lived in uncertainty too long.

For once his luck holds and he slips in silent and unseen. And when he finds his prize, he holds his breath and wills the tremor in his hand to cease as he reaches forward to ease it out of its case and pull back the cloth.

It is battered and worn from its time in the sea. The paint is faded in some places, chipped in others, and without its rightful owner it is only so much inert matter. It is a lifeless imitation and a poor substitute for the real thing.

Still, he takes a moment to cradle the mask in his arms and press it to his chest, gently, before escaping back into the night.

 

. . .

  

She can’t remember the last time she had a decent night’s rest. Even when she manages to sleep through the night and even when her dreams are devoid of nightmares (and even when, miraculously, those two occur at the same time) she still wakes up exhausted, anxious, jumping at shadows. Tenzin stops expecting her for morning meditation and instead starts to schedule them at night, more than once carrying her to bed when her mind finally finds peace enough to settle down. On particularly bad days when she can’t find it in her to leave her room he brings breakfast and they sit on the balcony in silence, watching the sun’s reflections on Yue Bay.

“You haven’t been eating,” Tenzin says one morning, and they both know he’s not just talking about the untouched bowl of fruit beside them.

“I haven’t been hungry.” Her eyes track a fishing boat’s return to harbor and she wonders if they had a good catch.

Tenzin follows her gaze. “I’m worried about you.” 

“I’m okay.”

“Are you?”

“Tenzin, I…” It’s one of those days where she can’t bring herself to feel much of anything. She rubs her forehead absently. “Do we really have to talk right now?”

He looks at her and shakes his head, gesturing with an open arm. “Come here.”

“Don’t you think I’m a little old for hugs?”

“Nonsense. That implies only children deserve comfort.”

She leans against his side and warm arms envelop her body, drawing her close. She buries her face against the orange of his robes, wondering if she should be feeling anything right now beyond sheer exhaustion, if Tenzin would notice if she started to cry without a sound.

He notices. But he holds her in silence, knowing better than to tell her it will all be okay.

 

. . .

 

The lieutenant had never been particularly religious in his younger years and his steadfast devotion to the Equalist movement  — to Amon, really, but it boiled down to the same thing in the end  — had given his life all the purpose he’d needed. But now, as he examines the precious cargo now in his possession, he finds himself with the need to do something, _anything_ to lay the ghosts of the past to rest. He knows in his heart that even if a body _had_ been found, there would be little chance of a proper funeral. He knows that if no one destroyed the mask it would sit alone and forgotten, a painful relic gathering dust. And maybe if Amon had meant anything else to him, he’d be able to let the past bury itself and leave this city with some thin approximation of peace.  

He considers heading north to find family (however distant) willing to accept the remains (however scant). There are nagging questions he’ll never solve and the north tantalizes him with the cruel possibility of answers. In the end he decides against it. No matter how the revolution had crashed and burned, no matter how many lies had nurtured the lieutenant’s ambitions and loyalty, it still feels _wrong_ to completely divorce the final rite of Amon’s life from Republic City.

Besides, he is saying goodbye to the leader of the revolution, not the lie who wore his face. It becomes for him a matter of duty, his last act as lieutenant and last act of devotion for his liege. After all, there is no one left who would help him in this task. There is no one left who put so much faith in Amon and lost so much in return. There is no one left who loved —

He thinks long into the night, drawing up plans and discarding them with equal haste, as he glances over every few minutes at the face he has hated and missed for an entire year.

There is nothing left for him to do but to mourn.

 

. . .

 

“Stolen?” 

“That’s what Lin said.” Tenzin watches her pace, choosing his next words carefully. “She wants your assistance in tracking down whoever stole it, but I told her I thought that was a bad idea.” 

Korra stops, pivoting in place to stare at Tenzin. “Because you don’t think I can handle it?”

“Because I don’t think this is your responsibility,” he says mildly with both palms up. “Because I think it’s unfair to burden you with anything else.”

“I’m the Avatar,” she says bitterly, returning to pace the room. “Everything’s my responsibility. Isn’t that kind of in my job description?”

“Your job is to bring and maintain balance in the world. That includes balance in yourself.”

“I’ll let you know how that goes,” she mutters, closing her eyes. She’s memorized the size of her room and the number of steps from one end to the other. Now she focuses on the carpet beneath her bare feet and the smooth stone walls waiting for outstretched hands. “If you didn’t want me involved, why would you tell me?”

Tenzin sighs. “I thought Lin might appeal to you directly, or that you’d hear about it anyway and decide to investigate yourself. I wanted you to be prepared. You’re also a grown woman and I respect your judgment enough not to keep this from you.”

She wants to laugh in his face, to yell that there’s not much left in the world she needs protecting from, that if he’s worried about things getting _worse_ she honestly can’t imagine anything worse than the past twelve months. She suspects it shows a great amount of character that she doesn’t do any of these things and instead breathes, waiting for the flare of misguided anger to pass. (She further suspects showing character and maturity are highly, highly overrated.)

“Thanks, Tenzin,” she says, and when she sees the look on his face she adds, “really, I mean it. I know you’re looking out for me and it means a lot.”

“Of course,” Tenzin says, looking skeptical. “If you want to talk — ”

“I don’t.”

“Will we expect you for dinner?”

“No.” She resumes pacing and looks away.

Tenzin sighs, mostly to himself. “No, I didn’t think so.”

He’ll have dinner delivered to her room and be unsurprised to find it untouched in the morning. He’ll be even less surprised to find her door open, room vacant, and Naga gone.

 

. . .

 

He is grateful for Amon’s insistence on secrecy within the ranks and even more so for the anonymity that had been offered by his uniform, but he still takes no chances. When he goes out it is to the shadier parts of town (literally and figuratively) where shopkeepers know enough not to ask questions so long as he has enough coin. If he cannot travel by night, then he travels with a cloak; if he cannot do either, he doesn’t travel.

He doesn’t have much money left to his name anymore, but he willingly spends what money he has on supplies: votive candles, sticks of incense, a fireproof dish, a small lantern he can wear about his belt. And finally…

“You want a _what_?” the shopkeeper asks with a laugh. “ _You?_ You haven’t gone and gotten religion on us, have you?”

The lieutenant scowls and repeats himself and the shopkeeper waves him in the direction of a messy pile of scrolls in the back. 

“Don’t think we have any, but you’re welcome to look.”

That shop did not, in fact, have what he was looking for, and neither did the next one. It takes three more stops before he’s found someone who even knows what he’s talking about. The woman in this shop smiles at him before disappearing into the back, talking the entire time. “Ah, I haven’t heard a request for one of those in a long, long while. They used to be more common when people cared about their roots, but nowadays… well, the younger generations just don’t care about traditions, eh?”

She returns with a scroll in her hand and scrutinizes his face, mouth quirked to one side. There’s a flare of panic as he expects recognition to light up her eyes, but all she says is, “You aren’t Water Tribe.”

“A friend,” he says simply, bowing and offering the very last coins he owns. He’ll have to be innovative when it comes to his next meal. “I hope this will be enough.”

It is, and he leaves the shop with daylight to spare. He takes a deep breath of the late afternoon air before pulling the hood back around his face, heading for the city gates. His knapsack is heavier now, lightly swinging against his back and giving him purpose with every step.


End file.
